Death, Sex and New York
by lashlaruey
Summary: What would've happened if Samantha cancer returned and she died? Morbid but I thought it'd be interesting. Chapter 7 published.
1. Carrie

_What would've happened if Samantha's cancer returned and she died? Morbid but I thought it'd be interesting. Set a couple of months after the Finale, the day after Samantha's death. (The movies don't exist in this universe, I don't like them lol.)  


* * *

_

Carrie Bradshaw feels a hand stroke the left side of her face. It is is soft, comforting and she knows exactly who it belongs to. She opens her eyes to reveal Samantha's face, and she's never seen her look more beautiful; her eyes bright and warm, her skin glowing with radiance, her loose golden hair glistening in the morning sun. Samantha gives her a small wink, and Carrie smiles lovingly back.

Carrie's eyes open slowly, as though she's struggling with the weight of her eyelids. Big's face comes into view. It wasn't Samantha's hand that had been touching her face, it was his. Realization had come harshly into play. Her stomach churns as she feels herself crashing down to the truth, to reality, all without leaving her bed. Samantha was dead. This was the morning after.

"Hey," Big whispers to her, his face etched with sympathy. She'd never seen that expression on his face before, just as he'd never seen her face look so gaunt and emotionless. Even after seven and a half hours sleep her face displayed the remains of how horrifically white and grief stricken it had been the night before. It was an image that was forever dwell in Big's memory.

"Was it a dream?" She replies, knowing full well how much the events of last night were so raw in her memory it would be impossible to mistake it for one. However, it was the only way she could bring herself to address it.

Big shakes his head apologetically, "no kid." She turns herself away from him and stares at the ceiling, at the faint cracks she'd always meant to get fixed, and whispers into the air, "shit." She closes her eyes, immersing herself in the blackness underneath her eyelids, away from New York, away from reality, away from the truth; the only place she could bare being right now.

* * *

**Sorry this is short, but if you like it please review so I know whether to continue ;)**


	2. Miranda

**Thanks for the review, it motivated me into finishing this ;).**

**

* * *

**

"Fuck." Miranda's brush had just made an ear-splitting crash as it fell into the sink. She retrieves it hastily and continues brushing her mattered hair in the bathroom mirror. The noise had obviously woken Brady as a second later his cries can be heard faintly in the next room. "Jesus," Miranda mutters to herself. She hadn't felt this scattered and disorganized before work since Brady was first born.

"Miranda, what are you doin'?" A sleepy, confused Steve appears at the doorway, clad in boxer shorts and a vest.

"I'm getting ready for work, what do you think?" She slams the brush, which falls back into the sink and grazes past him into the hallway.

"You're goin' to work?" He follows her into the bedroom.

"Yes, Steve, I'm going to work. You know, that place we go everyday except Sunday?" She opens a drawer, grabs a mint green blouse and throws it over her shoulders.

"Don't you think you should take a couple of days off?"

"To what? I was back in work the day after my mother died, how is this any different?"

"Because it is," Steve looks startled, "no offense Miranda, but your mother lived in Philadelphia and you said that was close enough. This is Samantha." Miranda stops what she's doing and listens to him. "Your best friend," he continues, "the one you sat in coffee shops with for hours, the one you've knew even longer than me..."

"I know who she is, Steve," Miranda snaps back. "Was... who she was," she corrects herself, looking unsettled. Steve stares at her, his tired eyes tell her he wants to hold her, but she isn't ready - she isn't ready to break down and crumble into his arms just yet. Losing control was the last thing she needed, losing Samantha was traumatic enough. "Look, Brady's crying. Can't you hear him? I think you should go check him while I get dressed."

"Alright, I'm on it," Steve gives her one last concerned look and exits the room, leaving a guilt-ridden Miranda to exhale loudly, putting her hands in her face. Her snapping at Steve came almost subconsciously, as though it was an automatic reaction when being in this terrifyingly fragile, broken state. It was state that didn't fit her well, like a bra one size too small. The truth was that she simply craved normalcy, something that made her forget that things could never be normal again. The usual morning rush to work, which ordinarily left her with a sense of purpose made her feel different today, because things were different today. So very different.

She turns and looks at the floor length mirror behind her, counting how many buttons she had put in the wrong holes of her blouse. Steve was right - she was in no state for work. She unbuttons her blouse and rips it off her shoulders, standing in front of the mirror with just a bra. A small tear trickles down her face. This was her moment of weakness, and she was only letting herself see it. She couldn't be a lawyer today because today she was Miranda Hobbs, best friend of Samantha Jones, who'd left New York and this life just nine hours earlier, and it would be impossible for her to be anybody else.


	3. Charlotte

**I'm happy people like reading this as much as I like writing it****, so I'd appreciate if you kept reviewing what you think ;)**

**

* * *

**

"Hey..." Harry glances at Charlotte as he walks through the room. She hadn't been beside in bed when he woke up that morning, instead she's been coiled up on the living room sofa, clasping an unidentifiable picture in her hands. He walks over and sits down gently next to her, placing his hand softly on her thigh, "how you holdin' up?"

Charlotte lifts her head up slowly, revealing smear marks on the arm the sofa from the mascara trailing down her face. The picture she's holding comes into Harry's view - it's a joyful, pig-tailed Chinese baby, the one they both stared down at for the first time just months previously. Their baby.

"I always look at this when I get upset," Charlotte says quietly, not taking her eyes from the picture, "It always makes me feel better."

"Yeah, well, I'm not surprised..." Harry points at the baby's face affectionately, "...that's one happy face."

"Yeah, it is,"Charlotte smiles slightly, but it vanishes almost immediately after, "for some reason it's just not making me feel the same way today."

"Hey..." Harry looks concerned, "...we'll be seeing that face in a couple of weeks, that's gotta make you feel better right?" He smiles hopefully, "Some much-needed joy to the house... to our lives, huh?"

"I know," Charlotte puts her hand on Harry's, "I know what you're saying, it's just..."

Harry squeezes her hand, "it's just what? Tell me."

"You know that I've always believed that everything happens for a reason?"

"Sure," Harry thinks back, smiling, "if you hadn't gotten a divorce you wouldn't have met me - I remember you telling me that. What about it?"

"It's just..." Charlotte takes a moment to answer and turns her attention to the TV, which is flaunting some trashy show on E! she put on earlier to distract herself, "I can't think of a reason for this."

Harry thinks for a second, "a reason for what?"

"For this," She turns back to Harry swiftly, it was the fastest she'd moved all morning, "Samantha. Everything. How can God put someone through that? Twice? Just to let them be killed by it? It doesn't make any sense." Harry knows she's talking about the cancer. "She was a good person, Harry. She was, she didn't deserve that, and I'm trying so hard to think of a reason - any explanation - why something like this would happen and I can't." Charlotte's tear-streaked face has now become fully lines with fresh ones, "I just can't, Harry."

Harry stares back, helplessness washes over him... drowns him; watching Charlotte lose her belief system before his eyes, the one thing she'd been carrying all though her life and had got her through so much, was one of the most difficult things he'd ever had to endure. Even more terrible than having to watch her in the waiting room of the UCLA Medical Center the night before just after Samantha had died. His heart was breaking in front of her.

"Honey, shitty things like this just happen..." He tries his best to mask this inner-turmoil, "...no one knows why, like that miscarriage you had last year. You were so strong getting through that, and you didn't lose faith then, huh?"

"That wasn't our baby," Charlotte replies unshakably, shaking her head side to side, "I could feel it... but this... this is my friend," she glances back down at the picture, still in her hands but gripped not near as tight. "And now I'm looking at this picture of our daughter and..."

"And what? What is it?"

"I don't know if I can do it, Harry," she blurts out.

"What are you saying?

"How can I raise a child in this world? A world where people suffer so much and die for no good reason? I don't know if I can do that," she gives a last look to Harry and rests her head back down, tightening her coil like a wounded, defenseless animal, creating newly produced mascara smears on the arm of the creme fabric sofa. "I don't even know if I want to," she mutters quietly to herself, but Harry hears every word. She closes her eyes, and the picture falls from her loose grip onto the beige rug below. Harry looks down at it, at the beautiful baby girl within their grasp, and despite her being the same one she doesn't seem like a "happy face" anymore.

Harry had been wrong, this was more harrowing to watch; a woman who'd previously found it impossible to envision her life without children, who'd fought with such remarkable force and ferocity for the last six years to obtain one, finally has one approaching her from across the globe... and now she didn't want it. In a way, Charlotte had died too, and for a minute Harry considers placing a blanket over her, perhaps sitting Elizabeth Taylor and her puppies next to her for comfort and letting her sleep. Instead, he reaches and down and picks up the picture, the picture his wife once stared down at with immediate adoration and stated with tearful determination, "that's our baby, I know it. That's really our baby."

"No," Harry says out loud, shaking his head side-to-side.

Charlotte opens her eyes, "what?"

"I'm not letting this happen, I'm not letting something like this ruin everything for us."

"Harry..."

"No, Charlotte. Listen, the world is a fucked up place sometimes, we know it is... but this baby is here..." he holds up the picture to her face, "...in this world, living in it, waiting to be raised by somebody who will love it with everything they have, and to be honest, I can't think of a better woman to do that than the one sitting in front of me on this creme sofa." Charlotte stares at him, her eyes wide and mouth open. "You can teach her the good things in life," Harry carries on intensely, "the things worth fighting through these hard times for. The world can be a dark place if you want it to be, Charlotte, but you're the light in it, one of its brightest. I knew that the first time I saw you in that divorce lawyers office. So, don't destroy that - don't let it go out. Please."

"Harry, that's..." Charlotte gasps, she's more than overwhelmed, "...that's the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me."

"It's the truth," He replies matter-of-factly. Charlotte lifts herself up and wraps her arms around him lovingly, enveloping him in a passionate embrace. "You're a mother, Charlotte," Harry continues over her shoulder, "and don't let anything let you think otherwise." She nods devotedly, her trickling tears cascading down her porcelain skin onto his naked back.


	4. Big

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey."

Carrie squints to adjust to the afternoon sunshine parading into her apartment. Seconds later, the initial blinding brightness fades and everything slowly comes into vision; her desk, her Mac, Aiden's armchair, the stacks and stacks of fashion magazines... and Big, his usual smirk painted on his face. "Huh? You made eggs?" Carrie asks groggily, looking around disoriented.

"Eggs? Nah. Cheese and bread? Oh yeah." Big replies in his familiar seductive tone that could make anything from cheese and bread to a box of paperclips sound sexy. He holds up a pan of very orange melted cheese and a plate of torn up bread.

"Cheese and bread? What am I, eleven?" Carrie replies dryly. She'd felt like she'd just woke up from a four year-long coma, which could've been possible as she had no idea what day or time it was, plus the fact she felt like she'd about aged four or five years after the experiences she'd had to endure.

"It was the only thing salvageable from that room you call a kitchen back there," Big states with a smile. He was relieved to hear her joke, especially since the couple of seconds she managed to open her eyes yesterday she could barely muster a sentence.

"Wow, you stepped in unexplored territory. What's it like in there?" she jokes, sitting herself up slowly. She felt better but still fragile, like the sleep she had helped put some pieces of her soul into place, but cracks were still visible; deep cracks showing glimpses of the hell concealed inside. She didn't know how long it would take for them to mend fully, to disappear, or whether they even would at all. Maybe she would have to wear some for the rest of her life.

"Oh, it's a lot of fun," he responds, dipping a piece of bread into the cheese and heading it for Carrie's mouth, which she opens accordingly and bites playfully, almost nipping his finger. He snatches his hand back and reacts humorously, "ouch." "So, how is it?" he asks her after a couple of seconds has passed.

"Disgusting," Carrie replies satirically, grimacing with her mouth full.

"Don't you remember?" Big chuckles.

"Don't I remember what?"

"Oh, come on. Second time we were going out? My kitchen? You fed me this just like I am to you now."

"So, what is this, some kind of full circle thing?"

"No, I'm just getting you back," he replies with a mischievous grin.

"Oh really?" Carrie raises one eyebrow suggestively, then dives her fingers into the pot of cheese and wipes it over his mouth. He laughs and flicks some at her face. She pushes him away affectionately and he pulls her down from the bed to the floor with him, the pot of cheese splattering all over them and their surroundings. "Oh great, now I have food poisoning and a ruined carpet," she adds and they laugh together on the tattered carpet, much they like did a couple of months earlier on the floor of a Parisian Hotel, just before Big told her she "the one".

A few minutes later they're still on the floor, Carrie resting on Big's chest, their shared laughter now died down. They both stare at the ceiling in silence, observing the faint cracks she'd looked at by herself yesterday, listening to each others steady breathing, and for that moment Carrie couldn't believe it; she was with Big. They were together.

Here she was, wearing underwear and a Roberto Cavalli Limited Edition halter-neck top she hadn't took off for 2 nights, her hair undone, her face bare with a few extra wrinkles and covered in melted cheese. She was exposed, unmasked, but she didn't care. Her and Big had come a long way from her farting in his bed and avoiding contact with him out of embarrassment. A very long way. They really were war buddies.

Samantha's second time at cancer began very soon after Carrie and Big's third time at a relationship, and this was the first time Carrie felt she was with him. Just him. Her mind not at hospital meetings or chemo sessions or contemplating Samantha's fate, because that was all over. Over in the worst possible way, but still very much over. Samantha still plagued her mind but not in the same way; there was just a deep-rooted numbness/sadness that remained, a pain she wouldn't know how to deal with if it weren't for the man she was nestled into, her Mr. Big.

"I love you," Big suddenly breaks the silence and Carrie's thoughts, turning to her as if he was reading her mind. "I just want you to know that." Carrie looks at him, smiling weakly. She always thought there was something different each time they got together; round two, their affair, their friendship afterwards, but this time, round three, there really was. She didn't know whether it was Samantha or Big's realization at the end of last year, but something was different. There was no game anymore; no chase. They were concrete, she could feel it in his firm grip of her hand. This, she thinks to herself, was the moment she had been waiting for for six years.


	5. Smith

**Note: some graphic scenes.**

"Look, man, you don't have to be here if you don't want to. Y-you can just wait outside while I..." Smith couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence, but Big knew. It was obvious, after all... they were standing in the middle of a cold morgue in Brooklyn.

Big stares at Smith. His potentially beautiful features are damaged by trauma and sleepless nights, and are all the more highlighted by the harsh light of the morgue. The disturbing clinical backdrop just made the image even more unsettling, and even more impossible to leave him alone. Big places his hand on Smith's shoulder and gives him a wink, "I'm here, bro."

A couple of hours earlier Smith had rang Carrie's apartment asking Big for a favor. After a slightly awkward conversation, Big agreed to chauffeur Smith to the City of New York Morgue to pick up Samantha, which he thought was strange at first; he'd spoke to the guy once during an event with the girls a couple of months back, and they could barely pass for being acquaintances, but strange things do happen in the face such colossal tragedy. It's as though the world opens up, and for that moment in time, the world isn't what it usually is; Smith was more than a stranger to Big right now, he was a friend who needed his help.

"Are you ready?" A white uniform-clad woman has just appeared in the room. Smith tenses his face and nods slowly; 'ready' is something he would never be. Big tightens his grip on Smith's shoulder. The woman walks towards a steel drawer a couple of meters away. Smith holds his breath. Big does the same. She grips the drawer handle and pulls forward. Smith closes his eyes. He opens them...

There she is.

He steps back, light-headed, feeling numb and feeling everything all at the same time.

"You okay, man?" Big turns concernedly to him.

Smith doesn't answer; instead he stares at what used to be Samantha, lying flat in a pulled-out drawer like some out-of-date files in an office cabinet. He looks down at the skin he used to touch, once plump and soft, now sallow and sunken... at the hand he used to hold, laying deathly still, never to be able to feel his or grip back ever again... and he stares at her face... her face... never to smile, never to cry, never to move again... wearing an expression so unnatural to her character, an expression he'd never seen her wear, even through the turmoil of cancer and the impossible notion of facing death. It wasn't even an expression... it was dead.

Big stares too, lost in his own trance of thought. He knew Samantha was dead; he held Carrie's hand as they watched her die; he was there when the doctor confirmed it; and he had aided Carrie through her pain for the past 48 hours, but seeing it there in front of him, a woman once so full-of-life reduced to the most lifeless thing you'll ever see, was the true confirmation. Big's eyes widened; he hadn't had the intimacy with Samantha like Smith had, but he had the history, and suddenly his mind became uncontrollably flooded with memories; when she asked him for a cigar the first night they met at 'Chaos' six years ago; when she told him to rescue Carrie from Paris a couple of months ago, scolding him like only a true friend would; and just three days ago, the day before her death, when she told him to look after Carrie for her and 'never fucking leave her again.'

"Is this her?" the woman spoke. They had completely forgotten she was in the room. Was it her? The odd thing was that even though Samantha was technically in front of them, she had never felt more gone. "Yeah," Smith replied weakly.

"I'm sorry?"

"Yeah, that's her," Big said firmly, feeling slightly agitated. The woman nods and pushes Samantha's corpse back into the wall of steel drawers. "Come on, man," Big turns to Smith, who's still staring down as if Samantha is still in view, "lets get out of here."

* * *

"Back to the meat-packing district, Raoul," Big says, not in the usual bellowing voice he often addresses to his chauffeur, but in a quiet somber tone. It took him and Smith five minutes to reach the Morgue car park, in which none of them spoke a word. Big slams the door behind him and turns to Smith, glancing at him sympathetically and slightly uneasily; he's used to having pretty girls at the back seat of his 'Batmobile', not a grown man in mourning.

"Thanks for doing this, man," to his relief, Smith spoke first. "I just needed someone with me for this. I don't have many friends in New York and I didn't wanna ask any of the girls, you know?"

"Don't mention it, dude" Big gives him a small smile as the vehicle pulls out of the car park. In a few minutes their relationship went from being merely strangers to something more, and the experience they just endured together had brought them a strange sense of closeness. Maybe seeing death right in front of you brings that out in people.

Smith removes his sunglasses and rubs his eyes, staring out of the blacked-out windows at nothing in particular... at the white lines flashing by on the tarmac they were driving on, at Miranda and Steve's neighborhood they pass on their way through Brooklyn, at the magnificent view of Manhattan from Brooklyn Bridge; magnificent though tainted by the fact it had one less resident... a very special resident.

Smith winces at the sight of a massive billboard of his "Absolut Hunk" vodka campaign that comes theatrically into view as they passed through Times Square. Big stares at it too, at the girls and sexually confused boys surrounding it excitedly, and he felt for the poor guy; not only was Smith going through one drastic change in his life; an existence without Samantha, he was also going through another; fast-rising fame that was growing alarmingly by the day. Big wondered if it was too much for a person to handle by themselves, and if he actually needed Big for more than just a day at the Morgue.

"Oh, shit," Smith uttered. They had turned a corner into the meat-packing district and there was a swarm of people surrounding a particular building a little ahead.

"What's going on?" Big asks.

"Word must've got out about Samantha."

"What do they care?"

"Some shitty magazines have been following her condition for the past few months, making it like some kind of weekly story."

"Well, that's fuckin' sick," snaps Big as the vehicle moves steadily closer to the commotion; a swarm of camera-holding parasites surrounds Samantha's apartment building door, while a multitude of strangers, some even holding "Absolut Hunk" posters, encircles them. There's even a small camera crew and a blonde news reporter, a red and white E! logo visible on her microphone even behind the blacked out windows of the car.

"Isn't there a back way we can go through?"

"Nah, there's nothing like that," Smith examines the chaos coming ever closer, "It's a short walk to the door, I should be cool. You can let me out here; you and Raoul get out while you can."

"Are you kidding me? I'll be fucked if I let you walk through that by yourself. Keep driving, Raoul."

The car is mobbed as soon as it is spotted by an excitable teenage girl a couple of feet away; the array of people congregating around the door envelop the car in a mere second. Every inch of each window is covered with eyes peering in, mouths screaming and shouting and hands slamming and banging on the glass and bonnet of the car.

"Stay here," Big shouts to Smith. The volume of the wails and shrieks from outside shift from muffled to ear-splitting as Big opens his door. He battles his way through the crowd to the other side of the car and struggles to open Smith's door, throwing his arms around his shoulders and attempting to guide him through the raucous pandemonium. Smith looks straight down at the floor, his sunglasses pressed onto his face while Big stares directly in front of them, his vision only on the door a couple of feet away. Shrill and piercing voices and screeches and blinding flashes from cameras fly at them from every possible direction, overwhelming them, drowning them, frightening them.

"SMITH!"

"Smith where have you been?"

"SMITH JERROD!"

"When's the funeral Smith?"

"SMITH I LOVE YOU!"

"Smith look at the camera!"

The blonde E! news reporter fights her way in front of them, a large camera lens gets thrust in their faces, blocking them off from the door. "Smith, is there a date for the funeral yet?" She has an irritatingly boisterous voice to match her vulgar, artificial grin. "Smith, what's it like to technically be a widow?"

"Jesus, can we have some fucking respect here?" Big yells into the air, but it only serves to intensify the situation.

"We have New York financier John James Preston here, long-time lover of Samantha's best friend, Carrie Bradshaw," she speaks brashly into her microphone, "tell me, John, how is Carrie handling all of this? Will she be mentioning it in her next sex column?"

"Don't push it, sweetie," Big closes in on her face heatedly then pushes her away with his arm, making an opening for door. He fumbles with the door key for a couple of seconds before pushing Smith inside the building, giving one last glare to the tight knot of scroungers closing in on them before slamming it shut in their faces. their shouts, screams and question now reduced to a muffle behind the hardwood door. Big rests his back on the door, rolls his head back, closes his eyes and exhales loudly.

Life had gotten pretty crazy since Samantha died, but apparently it was just getting crazier.

* * *

**There you go! I hope it was worth the wait. Sorry it was this late, I have a job that demands most of my life sometimes. Please review ;)**


	6. An Empty Chair

**Hey guys,**

**Hope you're all well.**

**I finally wrote this chapter, I apologize for the stupidly long delay and hope you're all still interested in the story. I am. I'd love it if you all left a review to tell me what you thought/how I can improve/what you would like to see or see more of in the story. I'll try and write the next chapter as soon as possible.**

**Thank you.**

**

* * *

**

"This had to happen, didn't it?" Carrie asks suddenly, penetrating the silence that had been lingering at table 7 of the quaint coffee shop she, Miranda and Charlotte had discovered on the edge of Manhattan. It wasn't the most stylish of coffee shops, on the contrary it was cramped, dim and generally unpleasant, with the only admirable quality being that it was one of about two coffee shops in New York they hadn't visited in the past with Samantha, but neither of them cared in the slightest. This day was going to be hard enough. They didn't want memories.

"You got your baby," Carrie continues, motioning towards Charlotte, "you got married," she moves her gaze to Miranda, "I got with Big, for Christ sake. We all got our happily-fucking-ever-after. Something was going to go wrong, and bam..." she hits the table, making both Miranda and Charlotte jump, "...one of us drops dead."

There's another silence. None of them look at each other. Carrie's hair is tied back, her signature curls looking limp and lifeless at the back of her head. Her face bears minimal make-up and she's wearing clothes a regular, non-mourning Carrie would only see fit to clean the apartment in.

"Excuse me, is this chair taken?" A 20-something girl appears at their table, her hands clasped on the empty chair between Carrie and Miranda. All three of them suddenly turn to stare at it. "It was empty, I just thought-"

"Yes. No. Yes, I mean take it. It's not, uh... it's not taken," Miranda replies uneasily, forcing a smile as the girl walks away with the chair awkwardly.

Miranda turns back to the girls, who are still staring at the empty space where the chair was, their expressions practically blank. "Does anyone want more coffee? I might get some more coffee. It tastes like shit but it might've been a bad cup, right?" Miranda says shakily, and she hastily leaves the table without even waiting for an answer, leaving Carrie and Charlotte alone.

"So," Charlotte begins a moment later, her voice so soft it's basically a whisper, "how are you?"

"What?" Carrie breaks her gaze from the invisible chair and turns to Charlotte, her eyes look tired and unfocused.

"How are you?"

"Oh," Carrie turns away, as though she had been expecting this question since the moment they walked in.

"How are you coping?"

"I'm not," she says simply, just as Miranda returns to the table, a cup of coffee in hand and looking noticeably relieved that some form of conversation had begun, while Charlotte continues to stare at Carrie, concern etched on her face over Carrie's last statement.

"Nope, still tastes like shit," Miranda states after taking a sip of her coffee.

"What about you, Miranda?" Charlotte now rounds on Miranda.

"What about me, what?" Miranda looks slightly wary.

"How are you?"

"Fine," she says abruptly, and she takes another sip of her coffee and recoils, momentarily forgetting it's "shit"-like quality. This time, even Carrie turns to look at her. "What?" Miranda says defensively at Carrie and Charlotte's intense stares. "I'm fine," she says again, this time a little too enthusiastically.

"It's just us, Miranda," Carrie says quietly.

"Yeah, you don't have to pretend," Charlotte rests her hand on Miranda's, which had taken the liking of tapping nervously on the desk for the past couple of seconds, whether Miranda was aware of it or not.

"It's been hard," Miranda says in the lowest voice they've ever heard her speak, "at home, I... I've been..." she nods her head disapprovingly, apparently unable to complete the sentence, "Steve's always asking me if I'm okay, trying to hug me, trying to do things for me, I just... I won't even let him touch me, for fucks sake," she blurts out, her voice shaky and eyes glistening.

"Why not?" Charlotte asks worryingly, tightening her grip on Miranda's hand.

"Because if he does," Miranda's voice rises, "I'll turn into a fucking Lifetime afternoon movie, and I can't handle that right now."

"Miranda, you have to let him in. You can't keep things bottled up like this, especially not this."

"She's right, sweetie," Carrie speaks, "you can't do this by yourself. We're here for you like we always are but I don't know what I'd be doing without Big right now."

"Me neither, Harry has been so good," Charlotte intervenes.

"You need him, Miranda," Carrie finishes, looking at Miranda with sad, understanding eyes, "I know it might be hard to admit for you but you do. You need Steve."

The glistening in Miranda's eye had now formed into a tear now making its way down her porcelain cheeks.

"Oh shit," she says unexpectedly after a moments silence, startling both Carrie and Charlotte.

"What?" Carrie asks curiously after Miranda fails to elaborate.

"Do you think...?" Miranda begins but stops, apparently lost in her own train of thought.

"Honey, you gotta start finishing sentences,"

"I'm a bitch again, aren't I?" Miranda looks imploringly at both Carrie and Charlotte, as if expecting a 'yes' or 'no' answer.

"What are you talking about?" Charlotte looks slightly bemused.

"You've noticed a change in me for the past couple of years, right?" Miranda crouches down and lowers her voice, as if indulging in some sort of secret (Carrie and Charlotte naturally follow suit). "You know, since I've had Brady I've become softer, more nurturing, more motherly, more all that shit?"

"Uh..."

"I wear dresses and curl my hair, for Christ sake."

"Yes, yeah, we get it, you're less, uh, you know..." Carrie tries to find the words, "uptight."

"Bingo," Miranda snaps her fingers at Carrie and sits back up straight, "I'm less uptight, and what am I now? I'm uptight. I mean, Jesus, look at my hair," she grabs a couple of strands and shows them to Charlotte, "it's straight, it's snatched back..."

"Well, the make-up dresser isn't exactly the main priority for any of us right now."

"Look at my clothes," Miranda continues over Carrie.

"Like I said..."

"Okay, look at me snapping and bitching at Steve," Miranda says, to which Carrie has no reply. "I'm even struggling to look after Brady lately too."

"But that's understandable..." Charlotte attempts to calm the situation.

"Charlotte, it's fine, you don't have to make excuses," Miranda puts her hands in the air as though admitting defeat. "It's like the old me has just woke up inside of me and is like, 'what the fuck? I'm married to Steve? I have a baby? Fuck!'"

"Hey, hey, missy, just stop..." Carrie puts her hand in the air, it's the most active and alert she's been all day, "we're all going through some shit right now and we're all dealing with this our own way, isn't that right Charlotte?" she glances at Charlotte for support, who begins to look very uncomfortable. "I promise you this is just some stupid phase you'll get out of eventually when all this... well, in time or something."

"What if it isn't?" Miranda replies instantly, "what if the Miranda before was just a phase and this is the real me, it just took something fucked up like this to happen to unleash it."

"Look, your mind is a mess, you're over-thinking..."

"Yeah, after this just go home, get some rest and relax," Charlotte adds.

"I'm just scared," Miranda's voice is now less aggravated and more vulnerable, "if I've fucked things up with Steve twice before, what if I do it now?" She bows her head down, takes another sip of her coffee before spitting it back out into the cup, "and can we please go somewhere else for a fucking cup of coffee?"


End file.
